


we are all born free (but live forever in chains)

by PrincessoftheBirds



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Deirdre Needs a Hug, Enhanced Senses, Gen, M/M, Non-Verbal Characters, Nonverbal Communication, Protective Siblings, Siblings, Slightly More Realistic Thedas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22776340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessoftheBirds/pseuds/PrincessoftheBirds
Summary: The world flashed, tilted, awash in shades of green like spilled watercolors. With a sputtering of spitting sparks, two tall, thin elves and a large white wolf fell through the rift in the fabric of the veil, crashing to the ground with a dull thud. Soldiers approached, wary and with swords drawn.
Relationships: Relationships to be added
Kudos: 4





	we are all born free (but live forever in chains)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5/9/20 Edited.

It was cold. Bright eyes flickered around the room, confusion clear as he registered his surroundings. This was not his bedroom. Nor was this anywhere he recognized from the Clan’s compounds. Deirdre noted his sister, unconscious in a cell to the side with Karma tucked up under her arm, and the four guards surrounding him, swords at the ready. They’re lucky she’s unconscious. Michiko was not kind to those who dared to cage her. His hair fell across his face. He scrunched up his nose, it itched. It was when he went to brush it away that he finally realized the bands of frigid stiffness across his wrists were manacles. With a sudden, searing pain that shocked a cry out of him, his hand lit up, flaring green and spitting sparks. The light scarred across his palm. He clenched his hands into fists, teeth gritted against the pain. 

How very odd. 

The door slammed open. A woman with dark hair strode into the room, followed by another woman, whose face was shadowed by her hood. He breathed deeply, scenting the air. The first woman circled around to stand behind him. She smelt of the fiery spices of rage and mournful hydrangea. It itched his nose. The other of faithful huckleberry and grieving chrysanthemum and spilled iron.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.” She demanded. Her voice sparked, like the furious fires of grief and loss, and he barely refrained from flinching away from her, “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.” 

He cocked his head, remaining quiet. She grabbed his bound wrist, pulling it up none too gently just as the green mark sparked and splurted again, illuminating them with a sickly green light.

His continuing silence seemed to only anger her more. As much as he could whilst bound, he shrugged. There was little else he could do to communicate his confusion, though it certainly did not help the woman’s fury. He wanted to hide away. He hated being the object of people’s anger.

She struck out, harshly grabbing at him and demanding answers. He flinched away, violently. The other woman, who had since circled around him as well, ushered her back and away. “We need him, Cassandra.” 

So that was her name. Cassandra, ‘Helper of mankind’. The other woman approached again, asking after his memories, what he remembered of what had happened. Presumably whatever killed everyone at this… Conclave. 

With his hands bound, he could not sign, not that he believed they’d understand, and to be perfectly honest, it was starting to frustrate him. It took much of his self-control to prevent himself from tearing up in frustration, chanting an internal mantra of peace and serenity, even as his thin eyebrows furrowed and his ears twitched. He shook his head, mouthing, ‘I don’t remember.’ Hopefully, she, or that other woman, the one who smelt of spilt blood, could read lips. He really wanted that Cassandra woman to go away. She scares him. A thoughtful look lit up her who smells of blood’s face. Cassandra moved to circle him once again, looking severe and impatient.

“Are you incapable of speech?” the woman asked. Well, not quite, he mused to himself even as he nodded. 

Apparently that was all Cassandra had the patience for, as she urged the other woman, Leliana, to go to the forward camp. Were they at war? He wondered mournfully. War was horrid, nothing good ever came from war. He hoped he wasn’t stuck in a war.

“I will take him to the rift.” He snapped back to attention, frowning. He did not want to leave his sister here. She was still unconscious in that cell, as defenseless as one of the Line of the Serpent even was. And she had Karma. That wolf was as loyal as can be, she’d defend his unconscious sister. Either way, he supposed he had little choice. To act without further information would be foolish. He resigned himself to going along with their plans. For now.

Cassandra removed the manacles, pulled him to his feet, and rebound his hands in rope. She led him up some stairs, worn and precarious. It was then that he realized just how fatigued he felt. As she led him out of the large stone building, and into the light, he immediately noticed the green vortex scarring the skies and casting the world in a green tint. Rocks floated in the sky closest to the vortex, held by some unknown force. The bone-deep chill pervading this snowy town only confirmed his fear that he was far from home. Very rarely did the main compounds get this cold and it looked nothing like the Winter Holds. The chill stung his nose.

“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra started, her back to him, “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

He stared up at the… rift?

“Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.” she bit out. A harsh ripple went through the breach, agitating the mark. It lit up, and lancing pain shot up his arm. It sparked and spit out the light, worse than any of the other shocks before. He bit back a scream, whimpering lowly.

Cassandra knelt before him, grabbing his attention once again. 

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads… and it is killing you,” she spoke, “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t this much time.” 

He nodded firmly, saving these people may just be what he needs to ensure his and his sister’s safety. Cassandra pulled him back to his feet. They began the trek through the snowy village. Many of the people lining the packed dirt streets glared and whispered and some even spit at him. His nose scrunched up, spitting is so unsanitary. The air hung thickly, like heavy ash and burnt flesh. He held his head high, hiding his nerves behind an imperial bearing. As they walked, he absently noted Cassandra speaking again.

“They have decided your guilt, they need it. The people of Haven,” Deirdre... has never heard of a village by the name of Haven. Must be rather small... Where in the world was he? “mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and templars.”

So many unknown phrases. Conclaves, Chantries, mages, and templars? None of this was familiar, rather it was painfully unfamiliar. He felt truly lost. Cassandra had continued to speak as he thought, but he did not tune back in until they had crossed through a wooden gate.

She pulled a knife, and he barely refrained from flinching violently. He had gathered that she obviously wanted his assistance with the Breach, and thus would be a fool to kill him now. That knowledge did not change his instincts. Instincts kept him alive and allowing an unknown near him, weapon in hand, chafed against every single one of them. He held himself stiffly.

She sliced through the ropes, and he rolled his wrists, relieving tension and aches, before adjusting the straps of his bracers. The seals would have to be renewed, he noted, they’d been damaged by whatever happened in the blank in his memories, but the metal was strong and alloyed with magic conductive steel. He tugged a few small pins out of a small inner pocket of the bracer, tucking his hair up and out of his face. He had a feeling that fighting may be imminent. 

“There will be a trial. I can promise no more,” she said, “Come, it is not far.”

He followed silently, after her as she made her way across the bridge, ignoring the scowling, spitting scouts and soldiers. They ran down the path, through the valley, until yet another surge from the tear in the skies halted him, sending him to his knees. Agony lanced through his hand and he breathed carefully. Once he’d caught his breath, Cassandra assisted him back to his feet. Two deep breaths and a quick prayer to the Ancestors, and all emotion shuttered off his face. He folded his hands placidly.

“The pulses are coming faster now. We haven’t much time.”

The approached another gated bridge, and his pace slowed as he watched the soldiers run cross. Moments after stepping up onto the bridge, a green rock smashed into the other end of the bridge with a deafening boom, crumbling it and sending him and Cassandra falling into the pass below. Lovely, more aches and pains. He sent a cursory pulse of energy through his body. Nothing too seriously injured. That was good, as they had no time to linger and recover. Another rock shot through the sky and crashed into the iced over land before them. It bubbled and fizzed like melted cheese, and a horrible creature rose out of it. 

“Stay behind me,” Cassandra ordered, rushing into battle. 

Another spot on the ice bubbled, green light shining. Deirdre backed away, looking around for some sort of weapon. He really did not want to reveal the sealed tanto hidden beneath his tunics, nor the sealed daggers tucked under illusions in his boots. It would simply make them more suspicious of him and could bring action against Michiko. There, leaning against a wooden box, was some sort of staff or pole. Better than nothing he supposed. Just as he grabbed the staff, another of the horrid monsters appeared. It attacked, lashing out with sharp-clawed hands. He blocked with the staff, whipping around, lashing out and smashing the weighted end into the creature's gut. He gracefully danced around it, channeling small bits of magic to his feet to stay anchored on the ice, staying out of reach. In a few small movements, he bashed it over the head, the force of the strike echoing in his bones, and it fell, fading away into gooey green sparks.

Cassandra had just finished off her opponent as he approached, makeshift bo staff held loosely in his hands. She did not look happy. 

“Drop your weapon. Now.”

He really did not want to. He didn’t trust this woman, he feared what she might do to him. But to deny her demands could very well make her violent. Hands raised in a show of passive surrender, he dropped the staff, catching it with one foot and launching it away. It clattered noisily on the ice. 

After a moment, she sighed, sheathing her sword. “Keep it. I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless.” She began to walk away as he retrieved the staff, idly twirling it to get a better feel for its weight and balance. “I should remember that you have not tried to run.”

She passed him vials of red liquid, potions she called them. They continued onwards. He sunk himself further into his teachings, blocking out stimuli, such as the bitter, biting cold and the wind ripping at his hair and his fears clawing at his mind. He held the fear, confusion, his worries and anxieties close, acknowledged them, and released them into the World’s Energy. He must remain calm and centered. Remember his teachings, serenity and peace. The Ancestors walk with him and he walks with the Ancestors. Breathing deeply, he twisted the staff in his hands. He wished he had his gloves. Moving on, they encountered more of those creatures. Cassandra called them demons, but he knew of no spirits like these. They dispatched each one.

Eventually, they made their way to a destroyed stone building, where soldiers were fighting the so-called demons. An eerie, glowing green rift hung over their heads, sparkings violently. He nimbly jumped down off a stone wall, approaching the first rift amidst the burning rubble, and joined the men fighting the demons. He spun into action, blocking a demon from attacking the odd short man with a lovely crossbow’s back. His staff sang through the air and before he knew it, the combined efforts of the soldiers and Cassandra had defeated them all. 

“Quickly! Before more come through!” The man, like those of the Clans, but lacking a Familia mark, grabbed his wrist and wrenched his marked hand up to pull at the energies of the Rift. He bit his lip harshly, holding in a growl. The mark tugged harshly at his energy, and he fought to hold onto control. Clenching his hand into a fist and ripping his hand back, he forced it closed, mending the tear, imposing his will onto reality. Shocks of pain arched up his hand. He shot the other man a rather miffed look, rubbing delicately at the exposed skin of his hand he had touched when he so rudely grabbed him. 

He frowned at his bare hands. He hoped they had not messed up his gloves; they’d been a gift from his sister. He hoped to get them back after this whole mess. 

The others had begun to speak of confirmed theories and of the mark marring his hand. He ignored their words in favor of examining himself for wounds. He hummed a low, subvocal tone, and a soft green glow, more akin to sun-dappled leaves in the warmth of spring than the sickly artificial hues of the mark, and smelling faintly of healing herbs, lit up his hands. He gently ran the light over a series of clawed gashes on his shoulder, coaxing the skin to knit back together. He let the warm light die, straightening up.

The others were staring at him. Deirdre stared back.

The moment dragged on.

The short man broke it, casually introducing himself, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

He smiled, eyes curving closed as he pressed his palms together, bowing slightly. This small man was much kinder, and much less terrifying, than the Seeker. He was the warm spice of cinnamon with a hint of ink and aged paper. The man who had grabbed him earlier moved forward, “My name is Solas if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

He seemed pleasant enough, if not a bit off-putting, perhaps he may yet forgive him for grabbing him. He nodded politely. 

Varric interjected in good humor, “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

With a soft gasp, he twirled around to directly face Solas, hands instinctively flying through the sign to thank him. Just barely remembering himself, he mouthed the words as well. He did not know he was a healer as well! Solas simply smiled, before turning to speak to Cassandra again.

“Cassandra, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen,” he stated, “Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

Deirdre mouthed that word to himself. Mage. He really wished he knew what they meant by that. Perhaps… from what he’d seen of this Solas and them labeling him with it.. Maybe they meant the Gifted? It would make logical sense… 

Varric nudged him, “You don’t talk much, do ya, Whisper?”

Bewildered by the unexpected informal address, he nodded slowly. It seemed Cassandra and Solas were done speaking of magic and marks and mages. They addressed him and Varric. 

Cassandra nodded, “We must get to the forward camp quickly.”

“Well, Bianca’s excited!” Varric grinned, hefting the crossbow up on his shoulder.

Cassandra directed them over some rubble, “This way, down the bank. The road ahead is blocked.”

“We must move quickly,” Solas said. Deirdre set off with them. He nimbly lifted himself over the wooden beams blocking the path. His steps barely made a sound, and he left only the faintest of footprints. Magic was truly a wonderful thing. He truly pitied civilian types.

They encountered more horrid demons, dispatching them quickly before moving on. The mark flared. Pain shot up his arm, and he inhaled sharply.

“My magic cannot stop the mark from growing further. For your sake, I suggest we hurry,” Solas said. They picked up the pace, climbing up the wide stone stairs to the north of a frozen riverbed. Deirdre carefully steadied himself on the slick surface with a small spark of magic.

As they headed up the ice-slicked stairs, Varric spoke up again, “So... are you innocent?”

He shrugged, adjusting one of his hairpins. He couldn’t remember. The blank spot in his memory disturbed him, if he were perfectly honest. It was unlike the Clans to have such blanks in their memories, even amongst the new lineages. They continued up the narrow, winding stone steps, careful on the snow and ice. 

At the top of the stairs, they encountered more demons. In a flurry of whirling steps, he launched himself at one of the green, translucent ones. Wraiths, he thought he heard them call them. They were troublesome. His nose twitched. He flicked his improvised bo staff, flinging green goop off of it. 

The Seeker spoke up, acrid worry in the air, “I hope Leliana made it through all this.”

Varric seemed unconcerned, “She’s resourceful, Seeker.”

The conversation was brought to a blessed end by Solas, “We will see for ourselves at the forward camp. We’re almost there.” Deirdre truly didn’t understand how these people were so… verbal. Jogging lightly, they made their way up the hill. He stared mournfully at the burning wagons and corpses they passed. Too many laid dead. Not enough time to recite any sort of proper funeral rites, not with the speed the other took. At the top of the hill and up some stairs was another rift.

“Another rift!” Cassandra announced, rather redundantly if you asked him. 

Soldiers were fighting the demons, and one called out, “They keep coming! Help us!” 

They dashed into the conflict, his bo staff singing through the air, dispatching the demons quickly between the four of them and the soldiers. 

As the last demon collapsed in a shower of green sparks, Solas called out, “Hurry! Use the mark!”

Resting his weight against the staff, weary and exhausted, he lifted his hand. He cringed at the feeling of it tugging at his chi, and wrenched it closed, smoothing the edges. Impose your will on reality and so it shall be. So I say, so it is. He shook his hand out and straightened up. He stumbled, feeling overwhelmingly drained.

“The rift is gone! Open the gate!” Cassandra called. The soldiers rushed to obey, pressing the door of the gate open. Their small, unlikely group went through the gate onto a busy stone bridge populated by soldiers. He presumed this must be their forward camp. They approached Leliana who was arguing to an older man in odd red and white robes. They didn’t seem very practical to him. That bright of a red would simply make a clearer target on a battlefield. Oh well, civilian types were odd things. Understanding their quirks was an exercise in futility. 

“Ah, here they come.” the man announced.

“You made it. Chancellor Roderick, this is-” Leliana began, only to be cut off by the man, Roderick. What in the name of the Ancestors was a ‘chancellor’? 

“I know who he is.” he spoke, sneering, “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal, and his compatriot, to Val Royeaux to face execution.” 

Cassandra seemed to not like that very much, and he couldn’t say he liked it much either. It was very rude of this ‘Chancellor’. She stalked forward. “Order me? You are a glorified clerk, a bureaucrat!”

The Chancellor retorted, “And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!” 

Leliana interrupted, “We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.”

“Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement, and obey her orders on the matter!” 

He was getting really tired of being talked about like he was not present. He rolled his eyes.

“...before more lives are lost.” he tuned back into the present as the Breach rumbled. The mark sparked and spluttered. His arm trembled in pain. He dug his fingers into the fabric of his trousers. As it calmed, Cassandra addressed him.

“How do you think we should proceed?”

He hummed and his ears twitched, thinking on what they had spoken on but he had not properly processed. He tilted his head, either charging or sneaking through a mountain pass? He pointed up towards the mountains. He wasn’t a frontlines fighter, and he suspected he might sooner collapse from exhaustion if they charged. Cassandra seemed to disapprove but followed his lead. Odd. He thought she might fight him on it, and was truly dreading it. 

“On your head be the consequences, Seeker.” the Chancellor shot bitterly as they passed.

The paths up the mountains were treacherous, narrow and icy. Many paths were covered in several inches of snow atop packed ice. It was cold, miserable and taxing. Only his excellent control had him walking on the top of the snow rather than sinking into it. Several times did he worry for Varric, whose legs were much shorter and therefore had more difficulty with the deep snow. After a long trek, they came upon the remnants of what appeared to be a mining site. The only way up was a set of ladders. He took off in a sprint, launching himself up the ladder, skipping several rungs. No movements were wasted, and before long he stood at the top, watching as the others made their way up the ladders. The Seeker sent him an odd look.

Cassandra announced, “The tunnel should be just ahead. The path to the temple lies just beyond it.”

Solas peered around them curiously, inquiring, “What manner of tunnel is this? A mine?”

Cassandra confirmed his suspicions as to the function of these tunnels. “Part of an old mining complex. These mountains are full of such paths.”

Varric broke in, “And your missing soldiers are in there somewhere?”

Solas added, “Along with whatever has detained them.”

“We shall see soon enough,” she said grimly. They headed up another ladder, and then along a wooden walkway. There was yet another ladder before the walkway to the complex itself.

They entered the complex, taking out several demons in the first room. The party continued into the tunnel, up some stone stairs, and turned right. Deirdre spun slowly as he walked, observing the architecture. It was so different from that of the Hidden Clans. Though it was not that they did much mining, to be fair to these people. His people were more into textiles than minerals. 

He leaned over the railing on the walkway, looking down into the darkness of the mine. He sniffed subtly. It smelt wet. Like Karma after Michiko threw her into the koi pond for breaking a shoji panel they’d just replaced. People really dug that deep? Why? What purpose would it serve? The Seeker cleared her throat. He moved back to the group, shelving his questions for a later, safer moment. They continued deeper into the mine.

He turned to the left and made his way up some old stone stairs. There are demons at the top of the stairs. He wrinkled his nose and brought up his staff. Cassandra charged in. He darted after her, whacking a demon over the head with the weighted end. He danced nimbly between demon claws, reinforcing his muscles with a delicate application of magic. After defeating the demons, they turned right and went up yet more stone stairs, these ones leading to the outside.

In the doorway, three corpses lay. The scouts. He knelt before the others could push on, gently closing the three scouts’ eyes and mentally reciting a funeral prayer to the Ancestors. He mentally gave himself a note to have someone return to retrieve the bodies. They deserved to be put to rest properly.

Varric sighed, “Guess we found the soldiers.”

“That cannot be all of them,” Cassandra said. He’d trust her judgement on this. These were her people, not his.

Varric asked, “So the others could be holed up ahead?”

Solas said firmly, “Our priority must be the Breach. Unless we seal it soon, no one is safe.”

“I’m leaving that to our elven friend here,” Varric replied, sending him a cheery grin. He nodded back. He’d do his best to resolve their problems. The sooner he was done here, the sooner he could return to his sister's side. They could not linger, and so they moved on. They continued forward down a rocky pathway covered in snow. Deirdre shivered. He wasn’t built for this weather. Only his experience at the Winter Holds and a combination of spite and stubbornness kept him moving. Didn’t mean he was happy about it. As soon as he was returned to his sister’s side, he was so hiding under every blanket he could find

Thankfully, they found the other scouts alive, fighting demons from a rift. 

A soldier cried out, “Lady Cassandra!”

“You’re alive!” 

Wryly, the soldier returned in between blows, “Just barely.”

They quickly burst into action, dispatching the first wave demons. Two more demons spawned from the rift, with long, disturbing limbs and an aura of terror around them. He swallowed thickly, before throwing himself into the rhythm of fighting. After dispatching them all, Deirdre threw his hand out, grasping the edges of the tear. He doesn’t think he will ever become used to the stinging, aching pain of closing the rifts, like threading a needle through one's own skin. It tugged irritatingly at his energy, and it was affecting his control. He really hoped closing the Breach would fix this.

“Sealed, as before,” Solas spoke, “You are becoming quite proficient at this.”

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” Varric said.

Cassandra helps a soldier to her feet. The soldier stumbled slightly but remained upright. Deirdre leaned against his staff, weary.

“Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer,” the light notes of positive emotions reached his nose as the soldier thanked the Seeker.

Cassandra deflected the thanks off onto him, “Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant. She insisted we come this way.”

The soldier turned to him, her eyes wide with an uncomfortable sort of awe and gratefulness, “The prisoner? Then you…?”

He smiled wearily, straightened his spine, and turned away. They must close that breach, and he cared little for the thanks of a people that would have seen him dead just hours ago.

Cassandra addressed the soldier, urging them to retreat, “The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go, while you still can.”

A bit awkward, the soldier snapped a salute at the Seeker, “At once.” She turned to her fellow scouts, “Quickly, let’s move!”

Solas stood beside him, looking out at the path down to the temple. He said, “The path ahead appears to be clear of demons as well.”

“Let’s hurry, before that changes,” Cassandra said, “Down the ladder. That’s the way to the temple.”

They headed west down the hill, descending down two ladders, and then continuing north down a steep pathway covered with wooden boards. They creaked eerily under even his light footsteps.

“So… holes in the fade don’t just accidentally happen right?” Varric broke the silence.

Solas hummed, confirming, “If enough magic is brought to bear, it is possible.”

Varric sounded... frustrated? “But there are easier ways to make things explode.”

“That is true,” he conceded.

Cassandra cut them off, “We will consider how this happened once the immediate danger is past.”

The party continues down a winding pathway to the ruins of the temple, picking their way down crumbling staircases.

Solas murmured, “The Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“What’s left of it,” Varric said

The temple laid in ashes. Dark spikes of cooled molten material marred the land and dozens of burned bodies and countless scattered bones litter the ground. Cassandra pointed to a spot in the midst of the carnage, “That is where you walked out the Fade and our soldiers found you. They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”  
.   
He paused; closed his eyes and knelt to scratch a small funeral marking in the dirt. He prayed that their souls would find peace within the arms of the Ancestors. May they find eternal peace and serenity. He doubted anyone would be coming to retrieve these bodies. Too many of them, and many more likely crushed under the rubble.

“What was that, Whisper?”

Deirdre continued on without answering. Directly below the breach, there floated another smaller rift. Green light filled the air, and it smelt horribly of burnt flesh. Leliana caught up at that moment.  
“You’re here, thank the Maker,” Leliana spoke. Cassandra took control of the situation, giving orders to Leliana and the men. 

She turned to him, asking, “This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?”

Affixing his mental mask back in place, he nodded. He moved in one fluid motion, silently taking off down the path, the others following close. 

As they approached, a disturbing voice called out, “Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”

He didn’t like the sound of that.

“What are we hearing?” the Seeker asked.

“At a guess: the person who created the Breach,” Solas answered. Nice to know, he supposed. They passed by some archers. Deirdre delicately leapt over some debris.

Along the path were large red crystalline structures that glowed. They sang eerily and had an unusual energy signature. They smelt like spilled blood and illness. They felt… tainted. He did not like it. 

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker.” Varric sounded uneasy. It sounded off, such unease in a man who had, until now, seemed so casual. He skittered away from the red stuff. 

Cassandra sounded tense as well, “I see it, Varric.”

Distressed, he shot back, “But what it’s doing here?”

Solas pondered, proposing a theory, “Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it…”

Varric shivered, warning, “It’s evil. Whatever you do, don't touch it.”

They continued down the path. He carefully picked his way over broken stone and debris, delicately dancing over uneven stones. His nose scrunched up in distaste. He could almost feel the grime build up on his skin. He carefully hid away his shudder each time he had to touch something with his bare hands.

The disturbing voice from before called out again, “Keep the sacrifice still.”

“Someone help me!” an older woman’s voice cried out.

The Seeker seemed to recognize the voice, crying out, “That is Divine Justinia’s voice!”

Deirdre leapt down into the center of the room, landing with only the quietest of noises and a sense of inhuman grace. Delicately picking his way around a few scattered skulls and bones, he approached the rift. He tilted his head and sniffed. The rifts had a smell! He did not notice it over the fighting before, but it was a very unique one. Like dreamy candlelight and sharp mint and something sterile but also wild, and static electricity and the dark forests of the Clan’s many hunting grounds. The mark sparked as he approached, sending ripples of pain up his arm once more. His fingers trembled. The voice cried out again.

“Someone! Help me!”

Then, growling sounded. The familiar noise of Karma’s warning signs echoed through the fade followed by the faint sound of two pairs of footsteps. 

“That was your wolf, was it not?” the Seeker pressed, “The Most Holy called out to you, you and the elven woman found with you? But...” 

A flash of white light, and a vision showed itself, giving some measure of context to snippets of voices, of a shadowy figure and who he assumed was the Divine Justinia they spoke of. She was held aloft by glowing red energy. The vision versions of both himself and Michiko stepped in the room, Karma beside him and snarling at the figure. Michiko stared dispassionately at the figure, kusarigama in hand, whilst the image of himself focused his concern on the elderly Divine.

“Run while you can! Warn them!” the vision of the Divine yelled, seeming more concerned for two strangers’ safety than her own. No wonder these people loved her so much. She seemed… warm. Like the Matriarch. He supposed he could see why they felt such anger at her passing.

The figure spoke, “We have intruders. Slay the elves, and their mutt,” before the vision disappeared in a flash of light.

Cassandra seems to have forgotten his silence, as she immediately began to attempt to interrogate him once more, “You were there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

He backed away. He was saved from the Seeker’s interrogation by Solas. No matter how much the man grated at his senses, he was eternally grateful. “Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place.” He explained, turning to the group, “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.” 

So, more demons. He was getting very tired of fighting demons. Lelianna’s scouts readied themselves, as did his companions. Quickly running through a few meditative breaths, he threw his hand out, connecting the magic in the mark to that of the rift. He grasped at the threads of the fabric of reality, twisting and smoothing and pulling, like pressing an awl through thick wool. It fought against him, until finally he pulled the right thread, pressing the force of his will into it, and the rift opened with a deafening crack.

It spewed out a massive horned demon. Lightning and electricity crackled across its rough flesh. They leaped into battle, lashing out against the beast. Bo staff in hand, and healing energy held at the ready, he dropped into a calmness only gained by years of battle experience, blocking out emotion and distraction. He bounced and danced and darted about the battlefield, twirling in and out of range and providing support to the others.

Cassandra cried out, banging her sword against her shield as she advanced, “We must strip its defenses! Wear it down!”

His hand ached, his arm trembled. He harshly tugged at the rift, disrupting it and weakening the demon of pride. The others quickly took advantage of its vulnerability, and Deirdre dashed back into the fray. Before he knew it, the beast fell, a dagger lodged into its skull. He nimbly jumped off from atop the corpse, and threw his hand to the rift once more. He grabbed the frayed threads of the rift, wrenching it hard with a resounding sense of finality.

Deirdre came to in a bed in a small wooden cabin, his sister's hands running through his hair and the low vibrations of her gentle humming. Karma’s head lay heavily on his stomach, a familiar, comforting weight. He felt weak and empty, like someone had been hired to dig up and remove everything that allowed him to feel. He whimpered. She shushed him, smoothing over his scrunched brow. 

Michiko murmured, lowly and calm, “Rest, little wolf. The rift has unbalanced your energy. You must rest.”

He breathed deeply, working to regulate his breathing and his heart rate. He vaguely noted the sound of the door opening, the scent of nerves and anxiety and fear, but ignored it, soothed by trust, the feeling of hands in his hair, the press of her energy and the scent of vanilla and larkspur. After whoever had come in left, Michiko gently coaxed him upright. He opened his eyes, finally, and gazed up at her blearily. 

‘The Lady Cassandra wishes to see us, little puppy,’ she told him, hands flying through the signs with the ease of familiarity. Her serpentine gaze urged him to comply, to hold off his questions. Now was not the time to rebel. Though confused, Deirdre followed her instructions and obediently held still as she weaved his hair into a formal up-do. He didn’t understand why they needed to see the Seeker again, hadn’t he done enough for them already? He’d stopped the Breach, hadn’t he? What more did they want from him? He whimpered tiredly. Michiko once again soothed him, patting his head and holding him close. With a resigned sigh, he stood and changed from the sleeping clothes into his blue pants and blouse. Michiko kindly helped him with his jacket, buttoning the fiddly little buttons up and neatly tying his sash around his waist. He complied as she fastened his bracers onto his arms. Finally, she tugged an unfamiliar fur cloak out, wrapping it around his shoulders and pressing his gloves into his hands. Deirdre slipped them on with a sigh of relief, reveling in the feel of soft fabric. Steadying him as he wobbled on his feet, she gently led him out into the frosty air.

Those who had just days ago spat at him and believed him a monster now stood crying out his name in awe, looked at him like something to be revered. They whispered and gossiped and some even knelt. Deirdre shivered. He held his head high, face held in a mask of indifference and tranquility. Michiko pulled him closer to her side, an arm wrapped almost possessively around his shoulders and guided him through the muddy streets up into the building that held the dungeon he had awoken in. Out of the crowded little village and in the empty hall, he let his shoulders slump, pressing his face into Michiko’s shoulder with a weary sigh.

She led him into a room at the back. Inside, he could just barely hear the Chancellor from the forward camp over the sound of his own heartbeat. Just before walking in, Michiko nudged him. She urged him to stand up straight, stiff upper lip and head held high. She was, naturally, right. They couldn’t trust these people, not yet. Not with his weakness. He straightened his spine, lifted his chin and stepped into the room, Michiko a half step behind him.

“Chain them,” the Chancellor called out to the armed guards, “I want both prepared for travel to the capital for trial.” 

The Seeker quickly contradicted him, and dismissed the guards. They saluted and left. 

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.” 

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it,” she declared. His presumptions were correct then, they did expect more from him. Michiko frowned imperceptibly. She was certainly not pleased. His brows furrowed. 

Leliana interrupted the argument, “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others – or have allies who yet live.”

Roderick seemed surprised and offended, “I am a suspect?”

“You, and many others.”

“But not the prisoner.”

“I heard the voices in the temple,” Cassandra said, “The Divine called to them both for help.”

The Chancellor sneered, crossing his arms, “So their survival, that thing on his hand – all a coincidence?”

“Providence,” she declared, “The Maker sent them to us in our darkest hour.”

Michiko grabbed his wrist, holding it gently but firmly. Comfortingly. He focused on her, the warmth of her fingers and the smell of vanilla, rather than the arguing.

“The Breach remains and your mark is our only hope of closing it,” Leliana said.

Every word seemed to make the Chancellor more and more defensive. “This is not for you to decide,” he spat.

Deirdre nearly jumped out of his skin when the Seeker slammed a heavy book onto the table. Only Michiko’s hold on his wrist and experience kept his unaffected mask in place. He wished the Seeker would stop being so loud.

“You know what this is, Chancellor,” she declared, “A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” 

Deirdre wondered if the Divine was incredibly wordy, or maybe she had huge handwriting, or maybe even both, for surely you would not require a book that long for a proclamation declaring a new Inquisition and granting it authority? It seemed a waste of paper, if you asked him.

She stalked up to the Chancellor, who backed up until he hit the wall, glaring at him and growing steadily louder as she jabbed her finger into his chest, “We will close the breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

The Chancellor left in huff. Michiko released his wrist.

Leliana began to speak, faith lacing every inch of her being, “This is the Divine’s directive: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos. We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

Why did they keep looking at him? Deirdre didn’t like this, he hated being the center of their attention. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t understand this world and he doesn’t want this.

“But we have no choice: we must act now. With you by our side,” Cassandra said, and extended her hand to him. “Help us fix this before it’s too late.”

He really wished they’d stop. Stop smelling so desperate and hopeful and faithful. Stop looking at him with belief in their eyes, declaring him some sort of religious figure. He doesn’t want this. He wants to go home.

He shook her hand.

He doesn’t want this.

It was dawn when Deirdre exited his cabin the next day. His weapons and gear (those that hadn’t been hidden on his person, of course) that he’d been found with had been returned, and he intended to reestablish a routine of training. After yesterday’s meeting with Cassandra and Leliana, he’d explored Haven and had noticed a lovely little spot down by the lake, surrounded by a small copse of trees. It would serve well as a private training spot. He didn’t understand their tendency to train in one big field together, wouldn’t that cause them to get in each other's way? He supposed it could assist teamwork, but it seemed so impractical to him. Must be another cultural difference. 

He spent most of the morning out in the copse, calmly working through his katas and his control exercises and maintaining his gear. The mark had affected his control of his magic, and he wanted to both see how much it had affected, and to fix any control issues it may have caused. He spent much of his time gently circulating and directing his energy, until putting it down at the lunch hour.

Deirdre slipped into the tavern, quickly gathering a meal before sitting down beside Varric. The dwarf was absently drinking ale as he worked on some sort of manuscript, and Deirdre took solace in the moment of quiet. He idly braided and unbraided a lock of his hair as he ate.

Varric spoke up, “Now that Cassandra’s outta earshot, are you holding up alright? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful.”

He hummed, nodding. He had Karma, and his sister’s support, he would be fine. He has to be fine. There’s no room for being not fine. His discomfort and fears did not matter, not when weighed against the fate of an entire world. It wasn’t safe to break down.

“I mean, most people would’ve spread all that out over more than one day.”

Deirdre smiled, a soft, barely there twitch of the lips. He liked this dwarf. 

Varric continued, “For days now, we’ve been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. ‘Bad for morale’ would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

He grimaced. He didn’t remember being in the Fade, and from what he’s heard, he’s not sure he wanted to. He was still trying to wrap his head around the idea that people went into another world whilst they slept. The Clan’s scientists and researchers would have a field day with the Veil and the Fade. He wondered if it were possible to take a sample? A tear implies some sort of physicality, unless it's a metaphor… Apparently, his confusion and bewilderment showed, as Varric laughed bitterly, patting him on the back.

“Yeah, I can hardly believe this shit either. Either way, you might wanna consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But this hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re gonna need a miracle.” 

If only he could run from this.

Not much later, Michiko came to find him. She sat beside him, nursing a cup of tea. Her nose scrunched up in distaste. Must be some particularly bad tea, she rarely showed such a visible sign of her thoughts. Eventually, she nudged him up and out of the tavern. 

‘The leaders of this.. Inquisition wish to see you,’ she informed him. He sighed, resigned. 

‘Must I?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

Michiko gently but firmly pressed him forward towards the Chantry once again. The leaders of this Inquisition had asked to see them and see them they shall. Cassandra met them at the doors, frowning briefly at Michiko by his side. Bird bone-thin fingers ghosted over Deirdre's shoulder, shifting the long fall of dark curls in a silent show of support. As they walked, he observed and fiddled with his marked hand, tracing the edges. It felt… wrong. Twisted. It pulled harshly at his magic, like an infection, or a leech.

“Does it trouble you?” the Seeker inquired. She seemed surprisingly genuine, a welcome difference from his first impression of her.

He nodded. It hurt, ached, scraped across his skin like sandpaper. He subtly leaned into Michiko’s touch, taking comfort in the smell of foxglove and poison. Her energy rose gently, soothing the hurts.

Cassandra hummed, “What’s important is that your mark is now stable, as is the Breach. You’ve given us time, and Solas believes that a second attempt might succeed – provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place. That is not easy to come by.”

Deirdre cocked his head. He supposed they must have some sort of plan to be pulling him in now. Together, they entered the War Room, Michiko breaking off to lurk in the shadows. She gently tugged on a lock of his hair as she brushed passed. 

Three figures that he had occasionally seen around Haven stood in the room, waiting.

Cassandra first introduced him to the blond armored man. “May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.”

The man, Commander Cullen, responded with weighty words, “Such as they are. We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.”

He nodded mournfully, he regretted the loss of life. Every lost life was a tragedy.

Cassandra continued the introductions, gesturing to a very pretty lady with dark curls, “This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

“Andaran Atish'an,” the ambassador greeted cheerily.

Smiling, Deirdre bowed politely to the Lady. She seemed lovely, and looked very polite. He thought he’d probably like her.

Cassandra gestured to Leliana, “And of course you know Sister Leliana.”

“My position here involves a degree of…” she began.

“She is our spymaster.”

“Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra.”

He bowed politely to the gathered group. He signed his name to them, gestured to his sister and signed her name as well. They may not understand, but he would still be polite. Michiko, once again proving to be the smarter sibling, jotted their names down on a nearby scrap of paper, handing it over to the Ambassador. 

She read their names aloud, “Deirdree and Misheko?” He nodded, burying a wince at the mispronunciations. She smiled, before lighting up with a small gasp of realization, “Oh! You speak with your hands? Were those your names?” Her happiness smelt like sweet lemongrass and a hint of warm spices.

He nodded, smiling happily. It was nice to be understood on occasion. 

“A very unique form of communication,” the Spymaster mused. Deirdre didn’t think he liked the way she said that, like she was plotting something. She seemed like a sneaky sort. 

“I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good,” the Seeker said, getting down to business. He nodded.

Leliana added, “Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help.” Deirdre wondered what these mages were rebelling against? No one had bothered to inform him, though he supposed people rarely rebelled without just reason. He’d have to do some research.

“And I still disagree. The Templars could serve just as well,” the Commander countered.

“We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark–” Cassandra reasoned. 

“Might destroy us all. Templars could suppress the breach, weaken it so–”

Leliana scoffed, “Pure speculation.”

“I was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of,” Cullen bit out. There was that other word again, templar. What are templars? Presented as the other option, maybe they were the other faction in this rebellion?

Josephine cut in as a blessed voice of reason. He knew he’d like her. He’d have to send her a gift. Maybe chocolates? Ladies liked chocolate, right? “Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition – and you, specifically.”

Ah. That was certainly quick. Did this ‘Chantry’ of theirs have nothing better to do? If the Chantry is anything like the Temples back home, shouldn’t they be busy caring for the less fortunate, not denouncing those trying to bring order?

The Commander grumbled, “Shouldn’t they be busy arguing over who’s going to become Divine?”

Josephine turned to Deirdre, explaining, “Some are calling you – an elven mage of unknown origins – the 'Herald of Andraste.’ That frightens the Chantry. The remaining Clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you.”

Deirdre wondered how he was the Herald of a religion he’d never even heard of. He tugged at his bangs, hiding the trembling of his fingers in the oil spill of dark hair. What were they on about? He was Herald to one woman alone, and she was certainly not their mythical ‘Andraste’.

Cassandra made a disgusted sound, “Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt.”

“It limits our options. Approaching the mages or templars for help is currently out of the question,” Josephine said. He smiled at her. So far she was his favorite. Level headed, calm and rational. He really needed to send her a gift. Oooh maybe she’d like a charmed piece of jewelry? Something pretty but functional?

Cassandra spoke up, “People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.”

Leliana continued, “Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading–”

“Which we have not.”

“The point is, everyone is talking about you.”

Cullen broke in, the bubbly hints of curiosity tinting the air, “It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How do you feel about that?”

Deirdre shook his head. He didn’t like this, not one bit. He was no holy figure. He didn’t like being the center of attention. He wanted to leave, escape, burrow into the warm protection of his sister’s arms. A Herald was meant to protect, not be the center of it all.

Cullen chuckled, a wry twist to his voice, “I’m sure the Chantry would agree.”

Leliana commented, “People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign.”

“And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong,” Josephine finished the thought. 

Deirdre stiffened. He was the problem here, wasn’t he? He is always the problem. Everything would be so much easier without him making messes-

Michiko came up beside him. She tapped a short message out against his arm with one hand, ‘You are not at fault.’

Michiko gently but firmly held his wrist in her hand. It was calming, reassuring. Michiko didn’t blame him, everything is going to be ok. She'll keep him safe, just like she did when he was little. Michiko wouldn’t let him fall. She’d hold him up til he could stand on his own again. He straightened up, fixing the minute cracks in his mask. He really needed to get a hold on his emotions. The mark’s disruption of his energy was putting him so off-balance.

After a long awkward moment, Leliana spoke up, “There is something you can do. A Chantry Cleric by the name Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

He hesitated. Michiko gently squeezed his wrist. He nodded.

Leliana smiled, satisfied, “You’ll find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe.”

“Look for other opportunities to expand the Inquisition’s influence while you’re there,” Cullen added.

Josephine seemed happy to have made progress, and added in her thoughts as well, “We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you’re better suited than anyone to recruit them.”

The Seeker spoke up, “In the meantime, let’s think of other options. I won’t leave this all to the Herald.”

He suppressed his flinch at the title, hiding discomfort behind a close eyed smile. Pulling away from the comfort of Michiko, he threw himself into the planning.

By the time they were released from the meeting, the sun was setting and Deirdre was so exhausted that Michiko kept him tucked up under her arm the entire way back to their cabin. He whined lowly as she maneuvered him into sleep clothes and into bed. She sat on the edge of the bed, his head in her lap, gently brushing out his hair. He drifted off to the sound of soft, raspy humming and the feeling of hands in his hair.


End file.
